


i don't ever want to leave, i'll watch you sleep

by ghosstkid



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:35:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29818152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghosstkid/pseuds/ghosstkid
Summary: “You can sleep, James… I will be right here with you.” Henry leans forward, gently circling James with his arms, laying over him as if to shield him from the cold wind; from the bullet that would still take his life.God, how he’d take that bullet for him if he could.
Relationships: James Fitzjames/Henry T. D. Le Vesconte
Kudos: 10





	i don't ever want to leave, i'll watch you sleep

**Author's Note:**

> title from the song "watch you sleep" by girl in red

The wind toys with the ragged tent. The canvas billows and then abruptly falls flat, weak against the ties that bind it to the poles anchoring it to the rocky earth. Warm, orange light illuminates the tent, the flame dancing inside the dented lantern. 

The shadow of a bird flutters across the billowing canvas of the tent. 

A fox barks out a laugh, a silhouette against the golden, dirty canvas. 

A rabbit leaps and bounds over the canvas. 

“B-Bird again…” a ragged voice whispers. 

“It is the easiest one, James! Do you not appreciate the effort it takes to make a rabbit?” 

“B-Bird…” 

The shadow of the rabbit dissolves with a loving laugh into a soaring bird that sails over the billowing canvas, undisturbed by the Arctic wind. 

The lantern suddenly wobbles, nudged by the excited movement of a boot. 

The bird becomes frantic fingers rushing down to save the lantern, righting it again on the bumpy tent floor. 

The lieutenant looks up from the lamp, meeting the strained, foggy gaze of the man lying in the cot beside him. Despite his pain, there is a smile on his cracked lips. 

“D-Dundy…” 

“Bird, I know,” Henry Le Vesconte laughs as he wipes his hands on his worn uniform trousers. They’d never pass the captain’s inspection now. 

Henry folds his thumbs together again, his hands creating the shadow of the bird once more on the tent’s uneasy roof. He smiles down at the sick captain. “Do you remember those sea birds that would follow us around on the Clio, James? They were so hungry all of the time… Or rather, that is what they made me think. One biscuit could not hurt, right? Never left us alone after that,” Henry laughs. 

James lets out a wheezing, pained sound; a laugh. His eyes close tightly against the wave of pain that washes over him. 

Henry hesitates, his hands frozen. 

Once more James opens his glassy eyes, staring up at the shadow of the bird on the canvas, flying over him with dark, gentle wings. 

There is still life in his eyes. 

The bird floats across the dirty canvas. 

“I remember… You liked the bird on the Cornwallis too. You might not remember… You were so funny, James,” Henry says. 

He remembers finding James laying in his bed, his eyes wide and nearly black. He reached weakly for Henry, clasping his hand with a wobbling smile. The lantern at his bedside glimmered, their shadows dancing on the sick bay’s ceiling. 

“How do you feel, James?” Henry had whispered as he knelt beside him. “I was worried…” He glanced at the bandages the blanket did cover. 

“B-Better,” James laughed. “A-Are there birds… outside? I can hear them…” 

“Yes, James. There are birds.” 

James turned his wide eyes up to the ceiling. Henry folded his thumbs together, fluttering his fingers. The shadow danced across the ceiling. James watched in amazement. Floating on a high of pain and the medicine meant to keep that very pain at bay, James felt tears in his eyes as he watched Henry’s bird fly across the wooden ceiling. 

“They look just like this,” Henry said. “And you will see them again soon. As soon as you can walk, we will go watch them together.” 

“We will watch the birds...” James whispered. Henry smiled. He lowered his hands, slowly leaning forward to press a kiss to James’s forehead. 

Now, that forehead is damp, hot with fever. 

The canvas whipping in the cold wind pulls Henry back to their bleak present. He stares down at James, bleeding from the very same wounds he was then. 

His lips tremble painfully. A stone settles in his throat. 

Henry’s bird falls from the air.

He slips from his little stool and grips James’s hand, collapsing against his hot, damp chest. 

“Why?” Henry sobs. “Why did you push yourself like that? You did it then and you did it again now!” James stares weakly down at him. “Do you think that you have nothing to lose?” A sob tears through Henry’s aching chest. “You have everything to lose!” He presses a tear-stained kiss against his palm. “Everything… It is not fair, James. It is not fair.” 

Trembling fingers glide over his hair. 

“Dundy…” 

“You just had to tell me…” 

“H-Henry…” James’s firm voice forces the lieutenant to look up, his red cheeks wet with tears. James stares at him intensely. “Promise… Promise me… You will keep going… South.” 

“James-“

“No… No matter what…” 

Henry can only stare down at him, his shoulders trembling as he holds back the sobs that threaten to tear him apart. 

James rests his weak hands on his shoulders; pleading. 

“No matter what?” Henry whispers. James nods. Henry takes a deep, shaking breath. 

Slowly, he sits on the side of the bed, taking James’s hands in his. 

Gently, as if folding the smallest, most delicate paper mache, he folds James’s fingers to create the shape of a bird, its shadow trembling against Henry’s chest. “We will watch the birds again one day…” Henry breaths, watching James’s gnarled fingers try to recreate the movement of brilliant, white feathers. 

James’s eyelids begin to droop, heavy with exhaustion. 

“You can sleep, James… I will be right here with you.” Henry leans forward, gently circling James with his arms, laying over him as if to shield him from the cold wind; from the bullet that would still take his life. 

God, how he’d take that bullet for him if he could. 

Instead, all he can do is to lay a gentle kiss on James’s wilted curls. He smells like blood and sweat, his pillow damp against Henry’s forehead. His hot, sickly breath brushes against Henry’s ear. 

James’s hands rest over his chest, still folded in the shape of a dove. 


End file.
